Author: insearchofannebronte@hotmail.com

The day of love is here, so in today’s special post we’re heading back exactly 184 years to the day when love arrived at Haworth Parsonage interspersed with a selection of Victorian-era Valentine’s Day cards!

The giving of Valentine’s cards far predates the giving of Christmas cards that only became popular in the second half of the nineteenth century. The Brontë sisters received their first cards on February 14th, 1840, and even though they eventually discovered the source was their father’s new assistant curate it must still have been a thrill for them – especially for 20 year old Anne.

The man was, of course, William Weightman, who had recently gained his Master of Arts degree from the newly founded Durham University and commenced life in the clergy. In the run up to February 14th he was astonished to find out that none of the sisters had ever received a Valentine’s day card, and characteristically he sprung into action. What he did next was a testament to his kind and good nature, although as we shall see Charlotte later took a different view of it. He not only bought four cards, not wanting the visiting Ellen Nussey to feel left out, but wrote personalised verses in each. His efforts didn’t end there, as he then walked more than ten miles across very rugged terrain in the height of winter to Bradford, where he posted them. He did this of course so the Brontë sisters wouldn’t guess he had sent them because of a local postmark, thereby adding to the excitement and intrigue.

The titles of the poems on each card can be equally intriguing to us: with only one can we positively identify the target, as ‘Fair Ellen, Fair Ellen’ was obviously meant for the great Brontë friend Miss Nussey. One title, sadly, has been lost in the intervening years, but two of the other three were called ‘Soul Divine’ and ‘Away Fond Love’. Could ‘Soul Divine’ have been for Emily, in tribute to her indomitable spirit, and could ‘Away Fond Love’ have been a reference to Anne, who was at that moment looking for a new situation as a governess that would take her away from Haworth? If so, then the missing title could have been for Charlotte, who may possibly have ripped it up in a fit of pique after falling spectacularly out with the young man she had once thought so highly of.

Despite the Bradford subterfuge, Anne, Emily, Charlotte and Ellen soon worked out who their anonymous sender was, and they wrote him a collective poem in return:

“We cannot write or talk like you;
We’re plain folks every one;
You’ve played a clever trick on us,
We thank you for the fun.
Believe us frankly when we say
(Our words though blunt are true).
At home, abroad, by night or day,
We all wish well to you.”

Were the sisters annoyed at being made fun of, or did they see it as an act of kindliness? I believe the latter, but either way we can easily imagine how delighted they must have been when their cards first arrived. These were young women who loved the romance of novels by Walter Scott and the poetry of Byron, and had created their own lands of Angria and Gondal full of the intrigues and mysteries of love, so this romantic gesture must have set their hearts a-flutter, if only for a moment or two. Charlotte in a letter to Ellen dated 17th March 1840 (her father’s birthday, a fact she fails to mention in her letter – but then Charlotte was never very good at remembering birthdays) told of how well received the cards had been, and what an impression they and their sender had made:

‘Walk up to Gomersal and tell her [Martha Taylor] forthwith every individual occurrence you can recollect, including Valentines, “Fair Ellen, Fair Ellen” – “Away Fond Love”, “Soul Divine” and all – likewise if you please the painting of Miss Celia Amelia Weightman’s portrait [Celia Amelia was Charlotte’s pet name for William] and that young lady’s frequent and agreeable visits.”

In February 1841, William Weightman once more sent Charlotte, Emily and Anne Brontë a Valentine’s day card, but this is how Charlotte viewed it now as revealed in another letter to Ellen:

“I knew better how to treat it than I did those we received a year ago. I am up to the dodges and artifices of his Lordship’s character, he knows I know him… for all the tricks, wiles and insincerities of love the gentleman has not his match for 20 miles round.”

Charlotte had Weightman’s character correct the first time round. His kindness would eventually be his undoing as his passion for visiting sick parishioners led to his early demise from cholera just two years after sending the Brontës their first ever Valentine’s Day cards.

If he had lived longer he may well have sent cards annually to Anne Brontë, for I like to think that they were an ideal match for each other. After all, it would not have been unusual for a young cleric to seek a wife among the daughters of a more senior clergyman, and affection at least certainly grew between them, until we hear of Charlotte complaining that Weightman spends his time in church sighing and gazing at Anne.

It was not to be, alas, but at least the sisters had that thrilling 14th of February in 1840 to remember. I hope that you have a very happy day, whether you’re with the love of your life, looking for that special person, or spending the day on your own with a good book. Please come back this Sunday for a completely new Brontë blog post.

Charlotte Brontë, like her sisters Emily and Anne Brontë, was a consummate writer. Writing came easily to her, and as readers of her novels will know, she was almost incapable of writing a dull or badly-phrased sentence. Unlike her sisters, we have a large number of letters from Charlotte Brontë that showcase her writing skills, as well as providing a remarkable look at life within the Brontë family. In today’s post we look at a letter Charlotte sent on this day 1834, a letter which she ‘made out of nothing’.

At the time of its composition Charlotte Brontë was seventeen years old, and this letter shows the maturing style of Charlotte between her juvenilia set in the imaginary kingdom of Angria and her mature masterpieces written in her thirties. The recipient was Ellen Nussey, a year (almost to the day) younger than Charlotte, and the great lifelong friend she had made at Miss Wooler’s school at Roe Head in Mirfield. It is a letter brimming with charm and youthful vigour, but with a tinge of characteristic melancholy too:

It is clear that Charlotte loved Ellen Nussey very much, a love that endured throughout her life. She thinks of her daily, ‘nay almost hourly’, and considers herself a small, insignificant thing when compared to beautiful Ellen surrounded by Birstall society. She has not written to her for two months, because she thinks she has nothing worth saying – this is a theme Charlotte will return to in letters to Ellen for years and decades to come. In one later letter, to Elizabeth Gaskell, she also explained that on occasion she receives a letter that she loves so much that she thinks she will answer it on the next day when she has time to reflect more fully and come up with an adequate response, but instead finds she has nothing to say and the letter goes unanswered.

We also receive an update from Charlotte on the weather in Haworth across that winter of 1833 to 1834. Contemporary records show that it was an unusually severe one, in which the West Riding of Yorkshire saw unprecedented levels of wind and rain, as well as, on New Year’s Eve, ‘one of the most tremendous hurricanes ever remembered.’

On the whole, it seems a cheery letter, but we read that Charlotte is concerned about Ellen’s health – and especially about the threat of consumption (what we now call tuberculosis): ‘I have seen enough of Consumption to dread it as one of the most insidious, and fatal diseases incident to humanity.’

Nine years earlier, a young Charlotte had seen her elder sisters Maria and Elizabeth carried away by this terrible disease, but she could little have guessed that in the succeeding decade it would claim the lives of her three surviving siblings too. It is another recurring theme in Charlotte’s letters to Ellen Nussey; she is often concerned about Ellen’s health and constitution, but whilst Charlotte died in her late thirties Ellen Nussey lived into her ninth decade. Charlotte Brontë has indeed cleverly contrived to make a letter out of nothing, but the hundreds of letters of such nothingness add up to an invaluable record of the life and times of the Brontë family.

I hope to see you next Sunday for another new Brontë blog post, and please do join me on Wednesday as well for a bonus post where we look once again at a Brontë Valentine’s Day.

February is a month that can bring snow, but it also brings snowdrops and the first signs of spring. It’s a month that brings the romance of valentine’s day and new life springing forth all around us. It’s also a month that brings new life to the Brontë Parsonage Museum in Haworth, and in today’s new Brontë blog post we’re going to look at a new poem which is particularly appropriate to the new parsonage exhibition.

The Brontë Parsonage Museum first opened its doors to the public in 1928, although there had been an earlier museum above the Penny Bank Museum in Haworth as well as an even earlier independent Brontë-themed museum within a house in Blackpool!

The Brontë Society are constantly searching for new Brontë-related items and artifacts, so their collection grows every year, with only a small percentage actually on display within the parsonage the Brontës knew so well, and the rest stored in a secure vault. The Parsonage Museum closes its doors in January each year, but its staff are far from resting during this time. In fact, this is the month when the collection is cleared, inspected and restored, and when a new exhibition is assembled ready for the museum re-opening at the start of February. Incidentally, I think it would be even better if the museum closed instead for the month of November and re-opened at the start of December, as its current schedule means that it’s always closed on Anne Brontë’s birthday on 17th January. Just a suggestion!

I once spoke to a museum volunteer who recalled, during one such January curation, opening a book which had once been in Charlotte Brontë’s collection. It had laid unopened, unseen for over a century yet within its pages she found a solitary hair – it seemed likely that this was the hair of Charlotte Brontë herself. What a simple everyday thing, and yet what a treasure to stumble across!

I’ve not yet been to the museum this year, but I certainly will be, and I look forward to bringing you a full report, with lots of pictures, then. I do know, however, that the theme of this year’s exhibition is ‘The Brontës’ Web Of Childhood’. It will explore their childhood, and the influences that led to their incredible outpourings of genius and creativity. This sounds like it will be a must-see exhibition, especially as it will contain items never before seen by the public.

In keeping with the current theme, I will leave you with one of Anne Brontë’s poems dealing with childhood. Anne was the youngest of six siblings, so she was the baby of the family receiving love and support from her sisters and brother. She was also, however, just a year old when her mother died, and so it was her aunt Elizabeth, Aunt Branwell, who became a de facto mother to her. Her poem ‘Verses To A Child’ is set firmly in the mythical land of Gondal she created alongside sister Emily Brontë, and it is even ‘signed’ by one of Gondal’s chief characters Alexandria Zenobia, but in it we see fragments of Anne’s views on children, childhood and her own infancy. 

Above is a portion of the poem which follows in Anne’s own handwriting from her poetry notebook. I hope you can join me next week for another new Brontë blog post:

O raise those eyes to me again
And smile again so joyously,
And fear not, love; it was not pain
Nor grief that drew these tears from me;
Beloved child, thou canst not tell
The thoughts that in my bosom dwell
Whene’er I look on thee!
Thou knowest not that a glance of thine
Can bring back long departed years
And that thy blue eyes’ magic shine
Can overflow my own with tears,
And that each feature soft and fair
And every curl of golden hair,
Some sweet remembrance bears.
Just then thou didst recall to me
A distant long forgotten scene,
One smile, and one sweet word from thee
Dispelled the years that rolled between;
I was a little child again,
And every after joy and pain
Seemed never to have been.
Tall forest trees waved over me,
To hide me from the heat of day,
And by my side a child like thee
Among the summer flowerets lay.
He was thy sire, thou merry child.
Like thee he spoke, like thee he smiled,
Like thee he used to play.
O those were calm and happy days,
We loved each other fondly then;
But human love too soon decays,
And ours can never bloom again.
I never thought to see the day
When Florian’s friendship would decay
Like those of colder men.
Now, Flora, thou hast but begun
To sail on life’s deceitful sea,
O do not err as I have done,
For I have trusted foolishly;
The faith of every friend I loved
I never doubted till I proved
Their heart’s inconstancy.
‘Tis mournful to look back upon
Those long departed joys and cares,
But I will weep since thou alone
Art witness to my streaming tears.
This lingering love will not depart,
I cannot banish from my heart
The friend of childish years.
But though thy father loves me not,
Yet I shall still be loved by thee,
And though I am by him forgot,
Say wilt thou not remember me!
I will not cause thy heart to ache;
For thy regretted father’s sake
I’ll love and cherish thee.

On this day in 1853 a remarkable piece of fiction was published: Villette. It was to be the final completed novel by Charlotte Brontë, and it was written at a time of intense personal struggle for her. Unlike during the composition of Jane Eyre and the first half of Shirley she was completely alone during Villette’s genesis, without her beloved sisters Emily and Anne to advise and inspire her. It was also a time when she was dealing with her father’s illnesses, and the aftermath of a failed proposal, as well as having to deal with her new found fame as a writer. We see all this and more in the subject of today’s post: five letters written around the time of the publication of Villette.

 

This letter to best friend Ellen Nussey from early December 1852 shows one of the recurring bones of contention that author and publisher had over Villette. Charlotte often liked to base her fictional characters upon people she knew well: so that the eponymous heroine of Shirley was based upon Emily Brontë and Caroline in the novel was based upon Anne Brontë. George Smith clearly recognised that he was the model for Graham Bretton – portrayed as a handsome yet selfish, and at times rather self-centred individual. Charlotte had once loved Smith, but her publisher’s engagement and marriage had placed a great strain on their relationship. This is also apparent in the earlier letter of 6th December to Smith himself – where once Charlotte would have been open with her publisher, she is now on the defensive.

 

 

By 19th January 1853, Charlotte was staying in London with George Smith’s mother and sisters, but she realises now that her tastes are not in accord with theirs. Charlotte has, as usual during her stays in the capital, been offered tours of the city’s sights, but she is more interested in the extremes of humanity than the trappings of fashion or high culture. During this period she has also received a charming letter from Flossy, once Anne’s beloved pet spaniel and now in its fifth year in Charlotte’s care. Written by Patrick Brontë, its purpose is to warn Charlotte against trusting men – and in particular against trusting Arthur Bell Nicholls who recently proposed to Charlotte and was soundly rebuffed.

In the 28th January 1853 letter to Ellen we see that Villette has finally been published, but she didn’t have to wait long to hear an unfavourable reception – as we see from the fragment of a letter sent by Harriet Martineau. Charlotte had earlier asked Harriet to give her forthright opinion on the book, saying: “I kneel to Truth. Let her smite me on the cheek – good! The tears may spring to my eyes; but courage! There is the other side – hit again – right sharply!”

Nevertheless, Charlotte was dismayed by Harriet’s reaction to Villette, and in a later review written anonymously by Martineau which repeated the same criticism. The rebuke of Charlotte for being full of love (the book was clearly, after all, written heavily under the influence of her unrequited love for Monsieur Heger, her former teacher and colleague in Brussels) was too much for her to take – and the friendship between Charlotte Brontë and Harriet Martineau was at an end.

It was a book that Charlotte Brontë found difficult to write, and she found its reception hard to take at times, but Villette is a book that endures. It is an incredibly powerful book, incredibly moving in its still, silent power. It is a work of genius. 

I can’t promise you a blog of genius, but I hope you will join me next Sunday for another new Brontë blog post. Incidentally, last week I failed to thank Vesna Armstrong for the incredible photo of Charlotte Brontë’s christening bonnet – my sincere apologies for that error on my part; Vesna is a fantastic photographer and Brontë enthusiast, so please do check out her work when you can.

If we could travel back in time 204 years ago to the day to the parish parsonage at Thornton, Bradford what would we find? We would certainly find a hectic, crowded home – for in it are two parents, two servants and five children. No, make that six children, for by her mother in a cradle is a tiny baby – perhaps her older sisters are peering in at this gurgling infant – particularly the next youngest, one and a half year old Emily Jane who would become so close to her younger sister. The baby was of course Anne Brontë who was born in this week 1820, and in today’s post we’re going to look at just what kind of a baby she was.

17th January 1820 was the day that the sixth and final Brontë sibling was born. She was delivered by a local midwife or possibly by a local doctor known to the family called John Outhwaite, and her birth took place before the fireplace which still stands today inside Thornton Parsonage. Incidentally, the community plan to buy the parsonage and save it for the public is making great progress – so keep an eye on this blog for further details as their plans near fruition.

The newly saved and renovated Thornton Parsonage will offer Brontë lovers the chance to live in the house in which those three famous Brontë sisters were born – but whilst many original features remain, it will be a very different building to the one that Patrick and Maria Brontë, and their six children, knew. Prior to Anne’s birth, her father had already written to the Bishop calling Thornton Parsonage wholly inadequate for his needs. Within four months of Anne’s nativity the family had moved to a new parish in a village which was forever transformed by their arrival: six miles away across the moors, Haworth.

Anne Brontë would not have had memories of Thornton like her siblings had, she would not have had memories of her mother – as tragically Maria died in 1821, probably from sepsis caused by complications after Anne’s birth. In many ways, therefore, she had a different shared experience to her four sisters and a brother, so just what was Anne like as a baby?

The 17th January 1820 was a Monday, so was Anne Brontë full of grace just like the famous rhyme says about Monday’s child? We can be sure that Anne grew up to be a very kind woman, one who thought seriously about society and about inequalities in it. She was a very shy, quiet and reflective woman, and a very religious woman too – perhaps she exhibited these qualities from a very early age, as there is a famous account that paints Anne as a truly angelic child.

The account comes from Nancy de Garrs, one of the two Thornton servants (along with her sister Sarah de Garrs) who travelled with the Brontë family to Haworth. She described the incident as follows:

‘When Anne was a baby, Charlotte rushed into her Papa’s study to say that there was an angel standing by Anne’s cradle, but when they returned it was gone, though Charlotte was sure she had seen it.’

Above is the very cradle that held Anne and, presumably, her siblings before her – but was there really an angel standing by it? Young Charlotte certainly seemed to think so – although of course we all know how powerful her imagination was. We will never know just what Charlotte saw, or what made the five year old rush to her father so, but I wonder, I wonder?

I also wonder what treasures the Brontë Parsonage Museum in Haworth will unveil for us when it opens its doors to the public again in February? Fittingly, in light of today’s post, the exhibits will place a particular emphasis on the childhood of the Brontë siblings. It will feature something very special never displayed before – the christening bonnet worn by Charlotte Brontë in 1816. Here it is in all its glory!

I will bring you more news of the exhibit once I’ve visited it, but you don’t have to wait that long for another new Brontë blog post. I hope to see you here next Sunday.

We saw in last week’s blog post how central Ellen Nussey was to the Brontë story – she was there at many of the most important events in the lives, and deaths, of the Brontë family. To Charlotte Brontë she was a lifelong best friend, and their relationship was summed up perfectly in a letter she wrote to her publisher:

It is another letter that Charlotte wrote, however, that we look at in today’s post – one in which she bids Ellen a fond farewell. It was sent on this day 1834 – 190 years ago to the day. A transcript of the letter follows below:

Charlotte is at her cheery best in this letter. She chides Ellen for buying her a gift – something Ellen often did; on this occasion it was a bustle. Charlotte’s threat to ‘smother’ her friend for the gift is delivered playfully, but it seems from this and other letters that Charlotte was all too painfully aware of the difference in social status, and finances, between herself and Ellen who came from a relatively wealthy manufacturing family. 

We also see Charlotte delivering fashion advice to Ellen, and chiding her over the possibility of one of the Taylor family of nearby Gomersal courting her – the family that produced their mutual friend Mary Taylor. Charlotte also promises to write an elegy for poor Mr Vincent. Reverend Vincent was not dead, but his romantic advances had recently been rebuffed by Ellen. 

Finally, we read Charlotte encouraging Ellen to write soon; the reason for this is that Charlotte is about to set sail for Brussels alongside her sister Emily Brontë (a picture of Victorian Brussels adorns the head of this post). This must have been an incredibly exciting time for Charlotte, a world of travel and adventure was about to open itself up for her – the sort of opportunity she had yearned for as a child when creating the imaginary kingdom of Angria. Alongside this happiness, though, there was a sadness – a sadness that she will have to wave goodbye to Ellen. We see this in a picture drawn by Charlotte at the foot of a subsequent letter – Charlotte has drawn herself in typical self-deprecating manner waving good-bye across the English Channel to Ellen, who has the ‘chosen’ alongside her – the aforementioned O. P. Vincent.

If Charlotte worried that Ellen would find a man in her absence, maybe that she would marry and have no more time for her friend, she was wrong. Ellen never married – it was the friendship and love she had for Charlotte that endured throughout her life.

The two years in Brussels were hugely important for Charlotte and for her subsequent writing, but she eventually realised there was no place like home and the people waiting for her there. I hope to see you next week for another new Brontë blog post.

After the tragic end to 1848 for the Brontë family those in Haworth Parsonage must have been hoping for a less testing start to 1849 – alas it was not to be, as we will see in today’s post thanks to the testimony of the great family friend Ellen Nussey.

Emily Brontë died, aged 30, in the week before Christmas and her funeral was a particularly solemn affair, with her pet mastiff Keeper leading the funeral procession: ‘He never regained his cheerfulness’, as Ellen recalled in a letter to Elizabeth Gaskell.

Christmas 1848 was a black-bordered time of mourning in the parsonage then, but there were fears for the future as well as tears for the past. Anne Brontë, Emily’s beloved younger sister, was also now showing the signs of consumption, what we today call tuberculosis. Her handkerchiefs, which Anne embroidered with her own initials, were held to her mouth during coughing fits – when removed, they were splattered with blood, as we see from the blood stained example in the Brontë Parsonage Museum collection.

Ellen Nussey had arrived at the parsonage on 28th December 1848, at the request of her best friend Charlotte Brontë. Whenever Charlotte’s spirits were at their lowest, it was Ellen that she called upon. Ellen remained in the parsonage over the new year, and was there on 5th January when Dr. Teale came to visit.

Teale had been called in by the Reverend Patrick Brontë. A renowned tuberculosis specialist, he had been asked to examine Patrick’s youngest daughter Anne – but by that time all in the family must have known what was coming.

Ellen described what happened next in her typical, and moving, understatement:

‘Anne was looking sweetly pretty and flushed, and in capital spirits for an invalid. While consultations were going on in Mr Brontë‘s study, Anne was very lively in conversation, walking around the room surrounded by me. Mr Brontë joined us after Mr Teale’s departure and, seating himself on the couch, he drew Anne towards him and said, “My dear little Anne.” That was all – but it was understood.’

The diagnosis had confirmed their worst fears. Anne had terminal tuberculosis, there was no hope for her. A crushing blow to start the year in Haworth, but Anne dealt with it with her characteristic and stoicism. This was the beginning of her great trial, but she refused to be bowed, and her faith and love remained strong to the end. Teale’s diagnosis also brought an end to Ellen’s visit to the parsonage, as he gave strict instructions that Ellen must leave the parsonage and return home – an instruction that may well have saved her from the infection, and saved her life.

I hope that your new year has started in more cheerful fashion. Anne’s story, indeed the Brontë story as a whole, is a reminder to us all that we never know what is coming – so we must all make the most of our talents and our dreams. Let this year be the year that your dreams come true, and I hope to see you again next Sunday for another new Brontë blog post.

As we approach the start of a new year it’s always a good time to reflect on the past and take stock on our lives. It’s a time when we can make positive steps for the future, or even map out a completely new direction, and that’s just what one couple did as 1812 turned into 1813 – in a move that would change the world of literature forever.

You may have guessed that the couple I’m talking about were Patrick Brontë and Maria Branwell. The dawn of 1813 must have been an incredibly exciting time for them, for just three days earlier, on 29th December 1812, they married at St. Oswald’s parish church in Guiseley, between Leeds and Bradford in the West Riding of Yorkshire. Within eight years they had six children: Maria, Elizabeth, Charlotte, Patrick Branwell, Emily Jane, and Anne Brontë.

As surviving letters show, there can be no doubt that this was a love match. Love had come late into their lives, by Victorian standards; Patrick was then 35 and Maria 29. It came quickly into their lives, they first met in the summer of the year in which they were married. But the twist of fate that led this man from Northern Ireland and this woman from Cornwall to meet in a Yorkshire school led to great happiness, and it led to the children and then to the incredible novels that we love so much today.

It was far from a conventional wedding, by Victorian or modern standards. Why have one festive wedding when you can have three? At the same ceremony at which Patrick married Marie, his best friend William Morgan married Marie’s cousin Jane Fennell, with Marie’s uncle (Jane’s father) presiding over the ceremony. By prior arrangement (which would have been made so much easier if they’d had WhatsApp in the nineteenth century), on the same day and at the same time but 400 miles away in Penzance, Charlotte Branwell, Maria’s younger sister and cousin to Jane Fennell, was marrying another cousin Joseph Branwell. Phew! Thankfully, many years later another Charlotte Branwell, the daughter of Charlotte senior and Joseph, gave a summary of this triple wedding to the Cornish Telegraph:

St. Oswald’s church today pays fitting tribute to their part in this special event, and in the Brontë story. Brontë enthusiast Joanne Wilcock recently attended a service at the Guiseley church and has very kindly given me permission to use these pictures she took from inside St. Oswald’s.

Whether you plan on getting engaged or married next year, on reading more books, or simply enjoying each day as it comes, I wish you and your loved ones a very happy and healthy new year! In 2024 I aim to start producing YouTube videos about the Brontës and other literary and historical subjects, so I’ll let you know when that’s all up and running. But, as always, I’ll be here blogging about those three sisters from Bradford who hold such a special place in my heart – I hope you’ll join me next Sunday, next year, for another new Brontë blog post.

Christmas Day is here, so let us put all sorrows to one side and celebrate a day when people simply feel happy with themselves and the world around them.

 

It’s not seasonal weather, as I type this on Christmas morning 2023 it feels more like March or April, and rain rather than snow is forecast for later. I love Christmas traditions however, so I will keep to the tradition of this page and festoon it with examples of Victorian Christmas cards.

Most of these examples are from the late Victorian period, as the concept of sending Christmas cards didn’t begin until 1843 thanks to Sir Henry Cole. Did the Brontë family send Christmas cards? We know they received one thanks to this example sent to Charlotte Brontë by Ellen Nussey; as you can see it’s rather less flamboyant, and weird, than the ones that came in succeeding decades.

Christmas in Haworth Parsonage was obviously a deeply meaningful one, a spiritual one, for the daughters of a Church of England priest. There would have been music at church and at home, with the brilliant pianist Emily Brontë at the keys, and Anne by her shoulder providing accompaniment in the singing voice described by Ellen Nussey as ‘weak, but very sweet’.

I leave you now with my other blogging tradition, the Anne Brontë poem written on, and about, Christmas Day itself. May I wish you all, your family and friends, a very happy Christmas and I hope you will return next Sunday for another new Brontë blog post. As you know, I have been writing these blog posts for eight years now, simply because I like to share my love of this wonderful family with fellow literature fans. You’re support means the world to me – thank you! I leave you now with Anne Brontë and her ‘Music On Christmas Morning’:

‘Music I love – but never strain
Could kindle raptures so divine,
So grief assuage, so conquer pain,
And rouse this pensive heart of mine –
As that we hear on Christmas morn,
Upon the wintry breezes born.
Though Darkness still her empire keep,
And hours must pass, ere morning break;
From troubled dreams, or slumbers deep,
That music kindly bids us wake:
It calls us, with an angel’s voice,
To wake, and worship, and rejoice;
To greet with joy the glorious morn,
Which angels welcomed long ago,
When our redeeming Lord was born,
To bring the light of Heaven below;
The Powers of Darkness to dispel,
And rescue Earth from Death and Hell.
While listening to that sacred strain,
My raptured spirit soars on high;
I seem to hear those songs again
Resounding through the open sky,
That kindled such divine delight,
In those who watched their flocks by night.
With them – I celebrate His birth –
Glory to God, in highest Heaven,
Good will to men, and peace on Earth,
To us a saviour-king is given;
Our God is come to claim His own,
And Satan’s power is overthrown!
A sinless God, for sinful men,
Descends to suffer and to bleed;
Hell must renounce its empire then;
The price is paid, the world is freed.
And Satan’s self must now confess,
That Christ has earned a Right to bless:
Now holy Peace may smile from heaven,
And heavenly Truth from earth shall spring:
The captive’s galling bonds are riven,
For our Redeemer is our king;
And He that gave his blood for men
Will lead us home to God again.’

The big day is fast approaching, so I hope you have everything in hand and can look forward to a relaxed Christmas Eve evening? Tomorrow I will bring you my traditional festive post, but today we turn to something very much sadder.

Christmas should be time for love, a time for joy, but in one household in particular the Christmas of 1848 was a mournful one: Haworth Parsonage. Emily Brontë died aged 30 on December  19th of that year, and was buried in the Brontë family tomb, beneath the church floor, just three days before Christmas.

To us, Emily Brontë was a towering genius. A brilliant poet and author of just one novel – but in my opinion it, Wuthering Heights, is the greatest book ever written. To those who knew her, however, it was a deeply personal loss. She ‘died in a time of promise’, as Charlotte said. She knew how great her younger sister was, and knew that she had the talent to achieve anything in the world of literature, yet at the time of Emily’s death her work had received little praise and her name was unknown. Charlotte, and Emily’s younger sister Anne Brontë, could never have guessed how Emily’s name would endure, how she would be loved the world over more than two centuries after her birth.

To Anne this was the greatest loss of all. She and Emily had been ferociously close throughout their childhood and youth, in a twin-like sympathy as friend Ellen Nussey said. They would walk through the parsonage, around Haworth and across the moors arm in arm, but now those walks were at an end. Anne herself had little time left to live, within weeks of Emily’s passing she too was diagnosed with consumption (tuberculosis) and just over six months later Anne too would be laid to rest.

There was one other who was especially devastated by Emily’s passing, her beloved and loyal mastiff dog Keeper. In a letter Ellen Nussey sent to Elizabeth Gaskell, who had asked for an account of Emily’s character whilst she was writing her brilliant biography of Charlotte Brontë, she gave an account of Emily’s funeral on 22nd December 1848. Ellen was present, she had been one of the few, perhaps the only, friends the fiercely shy Emily made outside her own family. In the letter Ellen gives this moving account of another who was present:

‘Keeper was a solemn mourner at Emily’s funeral & never regained his cheerfulness.’

Charlotte later recalled how both Keeper and Flossy, Anne’s devoted spaniel, would thereafter wait mournfully outside their departed mistresses’ rooms, but became excited when Charlotte returned from visits. They thought that others would be returning with her, but Charlotte noted they would never see them again, ‘and nor will I.’

On the 23rd December Charlotte Brontë wrote to Ellen to tell her the dreadful news, in an understated, quiet, moving letter:

‘Emily suffers no more either from pain or weakness now. She never will suffer more in this world – she is gone after a hard, short conflict. She died on Tuesday, the very day I wrote to you. I thought it very possible then she might be with us still for weeks and a few hours afterwards she was in Eternity – yes, there is no Emily in Time or on Earth now. Yesterday, we put her poor, wasted mortal frame quietly under the church pavement. We are very calm at present, why should we be otherwise? The anguish of seeing her suffer – the spectacle of the pains of Death is gone by – the funeral day is past – we feel she is at peace – no need now to tremble for the hard frost and the keen wind – Emily does not feel them. She has died in a time of promise – we saw her torn from life in its prime – but it is God’s will, and the place where she is gone is better than that she has left.’

I know that Christmas is a hard time for many, as we think of loved ones no longer here. May you find peace and the hope of everlasting love. Emily was indeed torn from life in her prime, so we must all live every day to the best, and let those we love know just how much they mean to us. I hope to see you tomorrow for a Christmas Day post, a rather more joyful one as we look at music on Christmas morning.